


Does He Worry You Smoke Too Many Cigarettes?

by shrink



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrink/pseuds/shrink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Pete are working at the Renaissance Faire for the summer but unresolved issues from Prom night tear their friendship and possible romantic relationship apart. Mike Makowski doesn't help matters by flirting incessantly with Pete, forcing Michael to take action or give up on his chance with Pete entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

x.

Michael leaned against the back of the Swashbuckler's Fudge Hut and smashed his cigarette under his boot. It was Renaissance Faire season, aka the only acceptable time to walk with a cane in public without a visible disability, the very reason he'd left his at home. He and his friend's yearly pilgrimage to the Renaissance Faire began long before any of them had enough money to pay for the weekly passes. They used to be small enough to crawl under the wire fence at the far end of the park between the archery stand and the porta potties; a dangerous, yet worthwhile act of juvenile delinquency.

Firkle was waving a bag in front of Michael's face. "Let the savory smell of Magic cards bring you back to reality," he said with a smirk. "Seriously, it's buy two packs, get one 50% off over at the Trading Company, plus I could use my discount for you." The piercings scattered over Firkle's face gleaned in the fading sunlight and Michael had to work to focus on the younger teen's eyes. That was probably the point.

"I need my money for gas and food," he said, realizing that he was beginning to sound like some teenage Republican. Firkle shoved the bag of cards into his coat pocket with a shrug. Michael wanted to tell him that he was sorry for being such an ass, but it felt like the moment had passed by the time he'd decided to say it.

They both looked back at the line formed in front of the ticket booth. Michael had put up a "back in 10" sign. He couldn't decide what it was about that basic information that khaki-clad soccer moms with sticky-faced kids failed to comprehend. His job was to sell tickets to the maze, which mostly meant he spent his days waiting for the inevitable screams of some lost kid. He wanted to tell them to get used to the feeling.

"My shift was supposed to be over fifteen minutes ago, I'm waiting for what's-his-head to get here." But as he said it, he caught a glimpse of his co-worker coming down the path. He was a thirty-something overgrown nerd who mouth-breathed and spoke of the on-goings of the park like the actress that played the Queen was true royalty. "Let's go," Michael said, grabbing Firkle by the arm and walking the long way around.

The pair made their way to the tea and coffee bar at the other end of the park where Pete worked. The only one who didn't work a shift at the park was Henrietta, who quit her job as the resident witch at the Wicked Pickle last summer when some kid chucked a water bottle at her to see if she'd melt. Truly, hell is other people. But still, there was something about the rustic Fairgrounds that kept him coming back every summer. Maybe the fact that someone built a place that valued a time when literature and plays were the main forms of entertainment. There was even an Edgar Allen Poe reenactor that was good friends with the Shakespeare reenactor and would speak in character until they'd both had too many rounds of the Foolish Fryer's ale. Plus the drama of puffy shirts and the constant smell of burning patchouli incense only added to his regard for the Faire. It reminded him of the smell of Henrietta's bedroom all those nights of his childhood he'd whittled away there reading Lovecraft and scribbling in his notebook, thinking he was some child literary genius.

The tea and coffee bar, or Manic Merlin's, that Pete worked at had live music playing, with a large deck stretched out in front of it. Typically it was full of people, but since it was the middle of the week, only a few regulars were seated at the picnic tables chewing on stale scones with commemorative mugs in front of them.

At first it'd seemed like a reprieve to Michael to be assigned to the solitary ticket booth stand as opposed to any place sociable at the park. Still, walking the five minutes down the path out of the games area to the more adult end of the park left him with the impression that he was missing out. A pretty girl was rewriting the daily specials on the chalk board that sat next to the register. "Where's Pete?"

She motioned to the back, obviously too good to speak to either of them, and they walked in the backdoor. The owners of Merlin's insisted that the tight corseted "bar wenches" (or bar bitches as Michael called them) worked up front while Pete had to stay out of sight, washing the dishes in the back. Only today he was sitting on the floor in the back with some of the Vamp kids from around the faire, bent over a lute like it was an electric guitar. His hair obscured most of his face as he plucked uncertainly at the strings. He was in the middle of some crude rendition of Just Like Heaven. Michael knew that Pete didn't even like Just Like Heaven, it was probably just the most recognizable thing he could think of. Crowds like this could be so limiting. He resisted the urge to walk over BloodRayne's fingers as he walked towards his friend. Seemingly recognizing the boot in front of him, paused mid-strum and looked up.

"Oh, it is 6 already?" he said, passing the lute back to the emo douche-bag pirate to his left. "Let me grab Henrietta's present and I'll be ready."

"Aren't you staying for the bonfire dude?" the douche-pirate asked. Every night the faire ended with the employees gathering around a bonfire that was just behind the jousting court. Michael had always suspected it was a way to burn excess trash to keep the utility bills low for the owners. But it had become a time for all the hormones and drama of the workday to play out to an appropriate backdrop.

"Nah, we're headed out." Pete said, swiping his bangs out of his face.

They were supposed to be meeting Henrietta at Benny's. It wasn't a pressing engagement, but somehow Michael felt a growing need to extract his friends from the backroom. He looked down at the Vamp kids in general with a sneer, "and we're late, Henrietta is—"

"I told you that I can pass as twenty-one," a familiar voice cut him off and he turned to watch as the lithe form of Mike Makowski spun into the backroom. He passed Michael without notice and leaned closely towards Pete to hand him one of the cups. "Drink it slowly Peter, I want you to appreciate the clove and orange spice. Mulled wine is meant to be savored." With his free hand Mike pushed a veil of bangs away from his cheek. His hair was long enough to brush against the historically inaccurate studded belt that outlined skin-tight trousers He'd insisted that he'd grown his hair out for his role as the Queen's loverboy Knight. But Michael knew it was a way to detract the crowd's attention away from the Queen's long red curls. He played a Knight at the faire, which basically gave him the status of a pseudo-celebrity, with visitors asking to get their picture taken with him.

Pete rolled his eyes and quickly downed the cup he'd been given. "Not bad Makowski. Maybe the owners will stop being such cheap bastards and not water down the alcohol." In spite of his statement, he made a slight grimace at the bitter taste of the red wine. "I guess quality is too much to ask."

Mike laughed, "I could say the same thing about your British accent." The Vamp kids laughed, Firkle laughed, and Michael turned his head in disgust to see Pete laughing too. Maybe the alcohol wasn't watered down. They were all supposed to talk in a British accent when they were around "guests," something Michael never understood. It's not like they were fooling anyone that they weren't all just white trash in cheap costumes.

"Hey, we should probably go if we're going to go," he interjected, feeling like some sort of sitcom mom coming in to break up the fun. He tried to sound bored at best with everyone, which wasn't much of a stretch.

Pete nodded and stood up, pulling off his apron. The puffy shirt he'd been given to wear opened loosely around his neck and his bare chest was evident as he stood. Michael looked quickly at his friend's feet.

"Remember, your liquid eyeliner isn't your jousting pole Makowski," Pete said, following Michael and Firkle towards the door before pausing. Michael supposed it was some inside joke that wasn't funny. Mike Makowski clearly thought he was his generation's Oscar Wilde.

"Guess where I'd like to joust, per say, you Peter," Mike called as Pete flipped him off. "Bloodrayne did tell you fags that the Musketeers are going to play a show tonight for the staff at the bonfire." Michael wasn't into the Celtic drum circle/bagpipers who liked to bill themselves as a rock band. They constantly made jokes about beer and being Irish, but he was pretty sure they were all from Buffalo New York.

"Sounds cool," Firkle said with a shrug, settling in next to Bloodrayne. Michael would never take Firkle into battle with him. He was too eager to fit in with the outcasts, too unwilling to maintain disgust at the Vamp kids for stealing their look, their attitude, and finally—invading where they worked.

"Alright if Firk's in, I'm in," Pete said, turning hesitantly, "what about you?" He was talking to Michael without really looking at him, something he'd gotten pretty good at this past month.

"I have plans," Michael said in a manner he hoped conveyed how they were abandoning him and Henrietta. Mike smiled into his mulled wine as he took a slow sip like he thought he was goddamn Prospero or something.

"I'll invite Henri!" he heard Firkle call to him as he walked out the back door. He lit his cigarette and resisted the urge to throw the still flaming match at the door.

As he drove to the diner he thought about how he'd liked it better when he'd felt like it was the four of them in a lifeboat from the rest of the world. No one came into the lifeboat and no one got out. 

"Hey," Henrietta said as he approached her in the diner. She wasn't quite looking completely up from the book lying open over her messenger bag. He tried to make out of the French title across the top of the page to no avail.

"Flowers of Evil?" he guessed at the title, trying to recall some detail of her life so he wouldn't seem completely selfish with the haul of complaints about Mike Makowski he was about to unload.

"Fleurs," Henrietta mouthed, tipping her cigarette into an empty coffee mug.

He was immediately annoyed that she didn't seem alarmed that he was alone. He ordered a coffee and sulkily watched her underline a passage. If she didn't want to notice that her friends had abandoned her, then he wasn't going to point it out.

The diner was dead without the vamp kids taking up half the booths. It almost made him glad they were at the faire. "No vamp kids here for once," he said motioning at the sea of empty booths.

Henrietta rolled her eyes, "no one calls them that anymore Michael."

"I do," he mumbled. It's like one day everyone woke up and let go of how things used to be. So what if he couldn't forget that Mike Makowski used to wear plastic vampire teeth every day to school until ninth grade…did that make him petty?

"How was work, did you finally dig that ditch in the middle of the maze?" She said finally, closing the book over her pen.

"No, but I've considered releasing plague-invested rats into it. I figure it'll add to the realism if your kids goes home having contracted the Black Death."

"You'd probably be given a raise for the innovation alone."

"Exactly," Michael said, bored of the joke.

"So where are our two favorite peasants anyway?" she asked, looking at the spot where they normally sit, like maybe they'd been there all along.

"At the bonfire," he tried not to say with too much spite. It seems that Firkle hadn't actually called her. Must have gotten caught up in all the festivities. "Apparently the lure of burning rubble and a drunk drum circle was too strong."

Henrietta looked thoughtfully at Michael's hunched shoulders with a tinge of concern. "When are you two going to talk about it?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

Henrietta pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. "Whatever the fuck happened between you before prom. I'm seriously not going to pretend that I'm an idiot so you can keep up your fantasy that you're unfazed by Pete's avoidance of you."

He thought about denying it but Henrietta's lips were pursed too tightly to allow resistance. He played with his earring thoughtfully, leaving her hanging for a second, allowing her to think that he was maybe about to lay his heart out on the table for her alongside the coffee creamers and the crusty salt shaker. Finally, he looked over at her and said, "it was just one of those things."

Henrietta laid her hands flat on the table like she was presenting the case to a judge. "Let's review the facts. You both showed up an hour late in separate cars and Pete was so shit-faced that they wouldn't let him in. When I suggested that we all go somewhere else you decreed that you weren't going to miss your prom, as if it suddenly mattered to you, and left him with me at the door. Do you have any idea how heavy Pete can be when he drags his creepers against storm drains?"

"You seem to know the story," Michael waved his hand dismissively.

"Yeah the end of it."

"That's the only part that matters of any story." He lit a cigarette and threw his boots up onto the booth where his other two friends should be sitting.

"You're so full of shit," Henrietta said but she didn't look annoyed. She leaned back in the booth and examined Michael like she was looking for some loose piece of him to tear him open with.

But what would it hurt to tell her, he wondered, glancing at the worried look across her dark eyes. "Look, he told me he loved me," he whispered across the table. Henrietta made a face and leaned forward.

"What?" she mouthed.

"He told me that he loved me," he repeated, thinking back to that night. Pete had shown up at his door in tight plaid pants, a matching vest, and a crooked black bowtie. Even in the memory Pete seemed larger than the room, taller than him, and hard to look straight at. "And he, um, wanted to know if I felt the same way."

"And what did you say?" Henrietta asked. Good thing the table was in front of her, it looked like she could fall out of her seat if it wasn't holding her in place. He was so glad that his life could serve as a visceral amusement park ride for her.

"That I'd have to think about it."

"What?" Henrietta practically yelled this time. The waitress gave them a dirty look from the front counter and Michael was sure everyone in the diner could see his soul blushing.

He'd assumed it hadn't been the right response when Pete had nearly gagged on the words. He'd stood in Michael's bedroom and said quietly, "You either love me or you don't." Michael had shaken his head, trying to make his friend calm down, he could even remember holding his hands in front of him, palms up in some sort of universal 'let me help' motion. "So you don't," Pete had said shrilly, backing out of the room like he was in a horror movie. Every time Michael had entered his bedroom since then those three words still seemed to vibrate off the walls.

"You do love him though," Henrietta said, looking unsure, like maybe he was feverish or had his body snatched by aliens. "You know you love him…right?"

"I…." But he didn't have a response. How could he?

"Oh Michael," Henrietta said after a minute of waiting to see if he could articulate some reasoning, some rationale as to why he'd fucked up so horribly. "You smoke a pack of cigarettes a day but cringe every time Pete puts one between his lips. You never say anything but I know it bothers you. He means something to you that the rest of us don't."

He knew what she was saying was true. He just couldn't confirm it. Not out loud. It felt like something dead inside him was trying to climb out of his throat. "It's just too much sometimes," he said, pressing his long fingers against his cheek, almost surprised that his skin was warm.

"I know," she said, sounding desperate to be comforting in a way that she'd never had to be towards him. He tugged on his earring until it started to hurt and then let it swing back into place again. What did anyone want him to do? Life had gone on since then and he couldn't do anything to stop it. The best he could do was pretend it hadn't happened, he was good at that. He had been pretending that he wasn't in love with Pete for years. He hadn't been prepared to stop.

He and Henrietta sat in silence for awhile, sipping down coffee until his skin crawled. As she returned to reading her book her dark hair covered her cheeks and Michael stared out the window. The shape of every car's headlights seemed exactly like Pete's car until they got close enough and his heart would slow down again.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete sat across from Michael on the human chessboard. It was early and only the actors, staff members, and hardcore faire-goers populated the fairgrounds. The two teens sipped coffee out of paper cups they’d gotten at the gas station down the road. It was Henrietta’s birthday and they’d agreed to spend their day off with her at the faire. The only time employees were allowed to get visitors in for free was the first four hours the faire was open. When they’d driven by her house to pick her up she’d grumbled into the phone that she was still putting an outfit together. So they’d been sucking down coffee since then, waiting for her to perfect her look.

She’d called five minutes ago and said she was at the gate and needed one of them to let her in. Pete and Michael had both looked at Firkle until he rolled his eyes and stood up, only mumbling, “you guys are douchebags,” before contemptuously taking his coffee cup with him.

“It’s too early,” Pete said, lying back against the painted black and white squares. His red hair splayed out from his head like he’d been shot down across the bishop’s space. Michael had taught Pete how to play chess years ago during a study hall they’d had together in middle school. Pete hadn’t been a fan and would routinely ask Michael if he, ‘really liked thinking this much.’ Out of context that story might make Pete sound unintelligent. He wasn’t, it’s just that maybe Michael did think too much, maybe there was a merit in acting, in doing. Maybe chess didn’t teach any lessons about life that anyone who wanted happiness should take to heart.

Across the faire grounds the air was still misty with dew. The sky was pink and if Michael squinted his eyes enough he could almost pretend that this was some small Medieval English town. Maybe he would be a reclusive poet who lived in a cottage at the edge of town. Because even in this fantasy, he still didn’t like people.

None of them had bothered wearing their period clothes on their day off. What had seemed like a fun costume for the first couple months had quickly seemed little better than a shitty polo shirt when you were required to put it on day-in and day-out. Pete’s black t-shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, and “GOD IS DEAD” was scrawled in white down his chest. His gray jeans had to be cuffed at the ankles so they didn’t drag under his creepers. Michael liked this Pete; dressed casually. He could almost pretend they were back in school again and prom or this summer had never happened.

“What’d you get her?” Michael asked, looking down at his chipped black nails after realizing he’d been staring too long where his friend's pale shoulder slipped under the ripped fabric of his shirt. It was an obvious topic to discuss. Pete couldn’t scoff and act like it was beneath him to respond; he was trapped by the mundane nature of the question.

“Some of that loose leaf Lady Gray tea she likes. And a tea infuser shaped like a crescent moon. I gave it to her last night at the diner.”

Michael’s insides crushed together a bit after realizing that Pete must have showed up at the diner after he’d left Henrietta around one. He thought about what Henrietta had said…was Pete avoiding him? He certainly wasn’t looking at him. He was staring into the morning sky with a tight look across his face. But that wasn’t what she had meant exactly and he knew it.

“Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?” Pete said, with too much terseness to really fit into one syllable.

“You feel like talking about it?”

Pete sat up on his elbows, alarmed, “about what?” It was obvious he knew what Michael wanted to discuss. They hadn’t spoken of it since it’d happened one month ago. That quote that people were always sticking on posters and cards; ‘time heals all wounds’…was complete and utter shit.

“Things are weird between us," he started off strong, like he was a lawyer holding up the key evidence of the trail. He paused and watched as Pete's expression remained unchanged. "Why can’t they go back to how they were before? This is the last summer vacation we have before I leave for college.”

“You don’t think I realize that? Why do you…” Pete began before trailing off. He had been looking down at the chess board beneath him, but drew his gaze to Michael’s unreadable expression. “They just can’t Michael. Christ, do you have any emotions inside you at all? Are you even alive?” he jumped up and walked towards Firkle and Henrietta. Everything about him radiated anger, the way he swung his arms, his quick pace, even somehow the way his hair blew back in the wind. In the distance Henrietta and Firkle were making their way down the path towards them. She was decked out in a black corset and black skirt that puffed out wide enough that Firkle had to stand a good two feet away from her.

Michael picked up his friend’s coffee cup and tossed it in the trash can as he followed him, as casually as possible. It's not like he was trying to be everyone's workday gossip. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asked when he had caught up to Pete. He wanted to grab his arm and spin him around but his arms stayed clenched at his sides. Michael took a breath and tried not to feel like the cardboard cut out of a person that Pete kept making him out to be. He had feelings, he had emotions, but it’s not like he could weigh them on a scale for everyone. It’s not like you could win a goddamn metal for being the person who had the biggest load of shit to get off their chest.

“If you don’t love me,” Pete said, his green eyes flashing. “Tell me so I can get over it, you know?” By the end of the sentence the words had lost their venom and it was just a sincere plea. For these past two months Michael had wanted to tell his friend how hard it had been for him, how he had so much bottled up, and how he wasn't sure how to take what he read in the pages of Keats and Yeats and turn them into a romance in such a shitty reality. But none of that mattered anymore. Because it wasn't about his pain, it was about Pete's pain and how much he wanted to make it stop. Why had he been so selfish?

But the moment was over before he had processed it all, and it seemed like he was on autopilot as he and Pete walked over to Henrietta and Firkle in silence. Pete forced a smile as Henrietta did a little twirl to show off her outfit.  

The rest of the morning felt like one long drag of a fingernail down a chalkboard. Pete and Michael occupied opposite sides of Henrietta, who remained willfully ignorant that anything was wrong. She’d seemed to silently take the position that it was her birthday and everyone should just keep their shit together for four hours as a gift to her. He didn’t really think it was too much to ask, but it seemed like Pete had lost all interest in conversation. Michael tried to placate the group with constant offers to buy everyone food or drinks, but the only one that took him up on it was Firkle. It almost felt exploitative after Firkle’s third pickle on a stick.

They went into the medieval torture museum that featured unrealistic mannequins in armor contorting screaming prisoners into all sorts of twisted punishments. Henrietta insisted that they use her phone to take pictures of her next to each of them.  Afterwards she’d wanted her palm read and shooed them all out of the tent, and reappeared looking obnoxiously superior to all of them. The last activity was the afternoon joust inside the royal arena. They got to the event early so they could sit upfront at her command. “I know it’s lame,” she explained, “but it’s the only place that has the vendor that sells the soft pretzels I like.”

Michael watched with disinterest as the parade of “royalty” marched into the arena. The Queen had her own throne across from the audience and was joined by important looking actors in wide skirts and big elaborate braids. There was a dirt field that was lined with a wooden fence and you could see the knights climbing onto their horses at the sides of it. Michael recognized Mike Makowski even with his stupid shining helmet on. His horse and outfit were black and green, and waved at the audience triumphantly in the afternoon breeze. There were flower girls in the audience with baskets full of roses and you could actually pay money to hand one of the knights a rose. Several housewives were clambering towards the front to hand Makowski their overpriced flowers. He accepted each of them as if he were surprised and honored by the gesture. Michael wanted to choke him.

“This is so lame,” Henrietta said through a mouthful of pretzel. Firkle mumbled in agreement as he scrolled through his phone. Pete nodded slightly when Mike waved at him from the arena and threw one of the roses he’d collected at him in the crowd. Pete rolled his eyes, but picked it up.

“Wow Pete, guess you’re the fairest maiden here,” Henrietta said, pinching his cheek until he twisted his head away. He shrugged and stared at the show. Another knight came out and loud trumpets signaled that the joust was about to begin.

Michael stood up and mumbled something about needing a smoke to Henrietta. You weren’t technically allowed to smoke anywhere on faire grounds, but people tended to look the other way at the various pubs. He ordered a cheap beer from one of the tight corseted girls standing behind the counter while he was at it. He could pass for twenty-one too, but he didn’t need to make a big fucking deal out of it.

When he could back to the benches, the show was over and the audience had cleared out. Mike Makowski was sitting on the bench in front of his friends, laughing at something Henrietta was saying. He had removed his silver helmet and was brushing his fingers through his hair. Firkle had stuck two of the wooden sticks that his pickles had been on through his lip piercings out of boredom. Michael wanted to ask for the other one to stab through his own throat.

“Well, it does take a lot of energy,” Mike said heroically, looking out into the arena like he actually thought he protected Queen and country on a daily basis instead of providing second-rate entertainment to a bunch of nerds. “But they give us breaks throughout the day,” he confided to Henrietta, “when we don’t have our various other duties to attend to.”

“I’d hate having to kneel down in front of the queen. She’d just some twenty-something in a bad wig who goes to a state school for Musical Theater. She needs to realize that she wasn’t actually ordained royalty.”

“Oh she’s just doing her job,” Mike said humbly, as if he was some really nice guy. “We always give everything our all here,” he said, leaning too close to Pete.

“I wash lipstick stains off mugs and take leaking trash bags of coffee grounds to the dumpster out back,” Pete replied.

“I’m glad that you guys have stopped acting like children and can actually get along,” Henrietta said, ignoring Pete’s sarcasm. “It’s not like there’s some surplus of interesting people around South Park.”

“The faire has a way of bringing people together,” Mike explained to Henrietta, “I think there’s something in the wine, don’t you Peter?”

Pete looked up at Mike. “Orange spice, clove, and rohypnol, isn’t that what you said Makowski?”

“Don’t be crude Peter,” Mike said as he grinned at the red-haired teen for a second too long, “Look, I have to be honest I came over here because the royal court is having a lunch right now and I wanted to see if you’d be my guest,” he said to Pete. “I’d take the birthday girl, but I see she has other plans.”

“Oh, Henrietta and I—“ Pete began but Henrietta cut him off.

“Pete, it’s fine,” she waved a hand at them both, “go, drink be merry, whatever. I have my party with the family soon anyway. Thanks again for the tea.” She extended an arm and he leaned in for a quick hug.

Michael watched the pair of them disappear down the path and could feel the beer burn in his stomach. Did Pete want him to tell him that he didn’t love him so he could be free to be with Mike? He knew Henrietta was looking at him with some sort of self-satisfied look as he watched them go. He wondered why it was exactly that everyone going out of their way to make him feel like shit today.

He spent the rest of the day at the record shop in Denver. But the drive and literal distance between the situation didn’t help. When he got home he ran the bathtub until the water was almost at the edge. The new vinyl from Death in June was spinning in his bedroom and he could still hear the bass line as he sank under the water. He wrapped his arms around his torso. His ribs felt too sturdy under his fingers. He almost expected to melt apart in the water like Epson salt.

In the water his thoughts could untangle. Of course he loved Pete, he just didn’t know how to say it. Obviously he knew the words, but they felt so hard to say after choking them down for years. But if it was going to be him or Mike Makowski, he’d obviously have to act. He pulled himself out of the water and wrapped himself in a towel. Just a couple weeks ago he’d shaved his own hair into a sort-of Mohawk in front of the bathroom mirror. His curls had since grown in on the sides, and the long waves he’d left were dripping wet and hitting against his nose. He tried to shake his wet hand dry before grabbing his phone to call Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is liking this so far. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. I know this is a bit different of an idea so I’m not sure how people feel about it. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“We haven’t snuck in here in years,” Pete said, still rubbing at his eyes like he’d just lifted his head off his pillow. Michael hadn’t taken ‘but it’s 1AM’ for an answer when he’d driven to his friend’s house that night and insisted that he roll out of bed and get dressed. They parked down the block from the faire so the car wouldn’t look so suspicious in the parking lot. Michel’s hair was still damp from his bath and felt cool against his cheek as they walked side by side.

“I just really want to go through the maze with you,” Michael said simply, cheerfully swinging a canister of the flavored Chocolate Hazelnut coffee; Pete’s favorite. It was a combination that was sure to succeed: the allure of the night sky, the romance of crime, and the delicious satisfaction of hot coffee on a cool night. They were walking on the side of the street that didn’t have streetlights for added caution. There were security guards that monitored cameras, or so they were told. It was much more likely the owners sat a scarecrow in the monitoring booth, had installed some motion detecting lights, and called it a day. Other than the sterling silver skull-and-crossbone necklaces, there wasn’t much any normal thief would be up for stealing from the faire grounds.

“We could have done it tomorrow,” Pete grumbled, looking suspiciously up at his friend through his bangs. He’d grabbed one of Michael’s old black jackets from the backseat of his car after sleepily complaining about the temperature. There were old band pins adorning the front pockets and fraying patches up the arms. It seemed appropriate somehow; the first year they’d come to the Renaissance Faire, everyone has come in costume, except for Pete. Michael had given him the cape he’d brought along, a part of a Dracula costume from some Halloween after explaining that it didn’t really go with his costume. Pete had spent the day occasionally tripping over the length but hadn’t taken it off. 

“No, it’s a full moon tonight, it’ll be perfect for this,” Michael looked at the gravel parking lot as they passed through the edges of it. It was oddly full for this time of night. Now that he was here he realized that no one would have noticed his beat up Jetta. 

Even though Pete looked half asleep and his hair was sticking up on the left he was going along with all of this surprisingly well. They made their way to the back entrance that was only used by the garbage men to empty the dumpers. It was only sealed by a chain-link fence. Pete sighed but took out the key to the gate. “I am Ye Jolly Keeper of the trash after all.” The gate squealed as it opened and Michael shot out a hand to stop it from moving any further. Pete pinched his shoulders together and squeezed through before turning his head to shoot his friend a look. “Creepy,” he whispered. 

The faire grounds did look sinister in the dark, but that was probably true of most things, Michael reasoned. Still, the pointed roofs of some of the concession stands blotted out the stars, and the abandoned picnic tables and benches seemed filled with ghosts of patrons that would sit there hours from now. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised to see Chutulu rise from the mud-pit and swallow us whole,” Pete said, more awake now. Crime with a backdrop of spooky scenery seemed to have that effect on people. 

Michael shushed him and directed them both off the main path and into the grass so they were walking behind the buildings. In the distance he was sure he could see flickers of light towards the main arena. He wondered if the bonfire really went on this late.  
“Come on,” he said, reaching back to pull Pete along by his arm. Pete snatched his arm away. “Sorry,” Michael whispered through the dark. He’d forgotten the imposed iciness towards him in his quest to put an end to it. 

When they got to the maze, they walked single-file with Pete following behind Michael into the center of the structure. The maze was essentially painted wooden boards that were eight feet high and impossible to crawl under. He hadn’t actually walked through the maze for fun, maybe ever. Typically he was sent in to clean gum off of the sides or pick up empty soda cups, but it was enough to know his way around. The flicker of his lighter against the sides of the maze was eerie against the quiet of their footsteps scuffling through gravel. 

“Just use your phone,” Pete said annoyed, taking his out to cast more light. “You always have to be inconveniently dramatic.” Michael smiled but continued using the lighter.

“Let’s sit here,” he motioned to a spot that was supposed to be a dead end. Pete slumped to the ground along with him and pulled his legs to his chest. Michael riffled through the messenger bag he’d brought and retrieved the candle he’d taken off his dresser before leaving. He lit the candle and then a cigarette before stuffing the lighter in his pocket. 

“Nothing says trespassing like a little redecorating.” Pete leaned down to light his own cigarette with a cuffed hand. Michael rolled his eyes and handed his friend the canister of coffee in return. 

“This is just like when we did séances,” he said. There was a stint in ninth grade when the four of them routinely snuck out to meet up at the cemetery that was down the road from Firkle’s house. Pete would bring the ouija board, Henrietta brought packs of cookies, and Michael would bring different incantations he’d find on the internet. Mostly they sat around and discussed the nihilistic hell that was high school. The scariest thing that had ever happened had been when five drunk jock seniors had showed up and broken the hands of the life-size angel statue that stood by the entrance. Pete had insisted on stopping them, and Michael had held his hand over his mouth while Henrietta and Firkle held him down. For a long time he had bite mark imprinted in his pointer finger as a result of the struggle. 

“What are we doing here?” Pete asked, sounding unsure of the stiffness in his voice. 

“Just drink the coffee and look up at the sky.” Michael leaned back against the boarded wall of the maze and took a drag of his cigarette. It was nice being here with Pete. Not that nice was the right word. The long section of his hair fluttered against his cheek in the wind as he looked up at the stars. It was one of those brief moments in life when he was astutely aware of being in his body and not just in his mind. It seemed like time paused for one long heart-beat of a minute and he wanted to stay like this forever. When he looked back down from the sky Pete was looking at him expectantly.

“Do you still have that old ouija board?” Michael asked, desperate to make everything seem casual and not like he was having some sort of existential crisis. 

“I guess,” Pete said, flicking his fingers against the space where his boots met the gravel, “somewhere.” It was almost like he didn’t want to admit that he had any memories of their friendship at all. 

“I guess it never really worked,” Michael said, “staying out was just a good excuse to sleep through first period the next day.”

“And what’s the excuse for this rendezvous?” Pete asked, almost like he wanted to force Michael’s hand. 

Michael smiled into his cigarette, “I wanted to see you.” 

“Yeah?” Pete’s eyebrow shot up. He stubbed his cigarette into the ground and moved closer to Michael. “Why’s that?” Pete’s green eyes looked gray in the dark as he huddled into Michael’s jacket, the fraying collar pressed against his cheek. Michael’s fingers hesitantly found Pete’s and interlocked them. 

Before either of them could say another word, the sound of feet crunching gravel nearby made each of them suck in a breath. Michael quickly singed out the flame of the candle with his fingers. 

“I know you assholes are here,” Mike Makowski’s whiny voice carried across the maze. “You triggered an alarm in the back entrance. And we have you on surveillance.” 

Michael and Pete’s eyes were wide as they gazed in alarm at one another. Mike’s footsteps seemed to get closer and would then fade away as he clumsily made his way through the maze. 

“So you can come party with us at the bonfire, like I know you want to anyway,” he continued, “or we’ll call the police and enjoy the thrill of watching you escape brute force on closed circuit security cameras. I think it’s a pretty easy choice.”

Pete opened his mouth and Michael clamped his hand over it. “Fuck that,” he whispered into Pete’s ear, “we’ll run.”

Michael stuffed the candle and coffee canister into his bag and pulled Pete’s sleeve in one seamless motion. Their boots hit the gravel quick and they could hear Makowski following closely behind. Michael shot in the direction of the nearest exit to the maze, zigzagging around the tight corners, and feeling with his hand along the wall for support. Even though he knew the way, gaps between the slots were almost invisible in the dark without the help of his lighter. He clamped his arm down against his messenger bag to stop it from flopping so hard against his leg, sure the hot coffee had spilled inside it. He could barely make out the exit ahead and kept going regardless. Once he slipped through the exit he whipped around to smile at Pete. But no one was there. He almost didn’t believe it, and held his hand out in the dark to feel for his friend, but there was only empty space. How long had he been running away alone?

For a second he considered walking back through, trying to find both of them. But what would he find? He tried not to let the creeping mental images take over and instead focused on leaving. He wasn’t going to play the fool in another couple’s great big flashy romance. 

He didn’t keep running as he retraced his footsteps to the exit, there was no need. Makowski wasn’t looking for him, no one was. It wasn’t a long enough walk back to his Jetta alone. His right pant leg was soaked in coffee, and he left one wet footprint as he walked down the street.

He sat in his car awhile, in some distant hope that Pete was really still on his way, he even sent him a text. After awhile of no response and not a thing moving on the empty street he turned on the engine. He knew he wouldn’t sleep that night; he had some sort of sick feeling that if he went to sleep tonight that he’d be asleep for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're liking this! If you are, let me know in the comments! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

In the hours that led up to his shift the next morning Michael went home and changed into his uniform before heading to Benny’s. In spite of sitting at their usual booth and repeat orders of coffee for five hours, their typically bitchy waitress seemed almost concerned about him. Anyway, she hadn’t brought him the burnt coffee at the end of the pot like she usually did to signal it was time for him to fuck off.

Through the window he could see the early morning sun reflecting off his car’s windshield and hitting against the newspaper machine on the edge of the parking lot. He was glad when it was time to leave and gave himself plenty of time to get to the faire. He wasn’t hungry or tired, but rather every inch of him felt alive. He almost twitched with the need to act; to do something, to prove something.

When he actually got to the faire’s parking lot all of the other staff members were lumbering into the entrance, their heads hanging down as if gravity were heavier than they were accustomed. It made him feel more alive. He breezed past all of them and headed straight for the morning staff meeting at the “Globe” theater. Typically there was some sort of “agenda” the managers had for the day like do a better job handing out samples of fudge or acting merrier around children. It was all bullshit anyway, he always talked himself into not getting too annoyed since he was essentially being paid to sit and do nothing for twenty minutes. Firkle and Pete showed up in the last five minutes before the meeting began and sat in the back with Styrofoam cups of gas station coffee that looked big enough to snap their wrists. Firkle caught Michael’s eye and gave him a bored wave with his free hand.

“Alright,” the manager began, looking at a sticky note before putting it back into his pocket. “We do have one Knight who’s already called in sick today, so we’ll need someone to fill in just for the morning joust until the afternoon crew gets in.”

It’s like Michael’s mind calculated the situation from every angle at once and before anyone could speak his hand was in the air volunteering.

The manager looked at him in surprise; Michael wasn’t typically an employee who went out of his way to do anything extra. But he nodded and made a note of the change on a clipboard. “Fine. Makowski will get you geared up and take you through the routine.” The manager continued to ramble on and reassigned one of the flower sellers to the maze ticket booth. It was nice to know he was easily replaced. Maybe a one of the flower sellers would like to take over the rest of his life.

Michael looked over to the annoyed gaze of Mike Makowski, as he twirled the ends of his hair. Makowski was probably annoyed that the extra time would take away from his preening. Fuck him, Michael thought, and had to mentally talk himself out of giving Makowski the finger. Anyway, the knight he was substituting for was no doubt hung over for staying out at the bonfire with Makowski all night. God knows the only thing propping Pete up seemed to be his liter of coffee. Michael thought about the flavored coffee that had leaked all over his pants last night. How pathetic.

By the end of the meeting he could feel Pete’s gaze burning on the back of his neck and he resisted the urge to look at him as he followed Mike towards the costume closet. Pete had his chance to talk to him. He’d conveniently turned and ran the wrong direction. Maybe that should be the standard rule for both of them starting now and continuing the rest of their lives.

“I didn’t know you could ride,” Makowski said as he switched on the light towards the back of the walk-through closet. There were different cloaks and robes, belts and wigs, all thrown together in a big soup of fabrics.

“Mike Makowski didn’t know something, stop the world; I’m too shocked to go on,” Michael said as he snatched the chainmail and robe that Mike was handing him.

“And you’re an insufferable dick. Glad the rest of humanity has finally gotten the message.”

Michael rolled his eyes and laid out the costume in front of him, picking up the end of a sleeve.

“Do you need me to show you how to put it on?” Mike asked with a condescending arch of his brow.

“I can fucking figure it out!” Michael snapped. Mike only shrugged and walked over to the mirror. Michael glanced at him to mimic how the armor went on. He pulled a purple and black tunic over his armor and swiped his hair away from his eyes. In the mirror Mike was sectioning his hair, pulling his bangs back to a ponytail. “Well, are you going to show me what to do Legolas?”

“This isn’t an actual dual you know, it’s essentially a play; and since it’s a play the audience does like their knights to look the part. But shove that helmet over your face and no one will know what they’re, um, missing, per say.”

“Guess I’m supposed to feel shitty because I have more going on than an effeminate bone structure and a surface knowledge of alternative culture.”

“Yeah a confused boner for Robert Smith, have you figured out yet if you want to be him or fuck him?”

“What a clever reference to the only band you’ve ever committed to memory.”

“Just shut up, we have one hour to get ready. I’m not going to get fired because you’re upset because your friends have finally realized what a bore you are,” Mike said.

Michael rolled his eyes. Of course Mike would care whether or not he was fired. He was on the goddamn honor roll every year in high school, the little conformist.

Mike’s hair flattened against his back when he put his helmet on.

“Fine.” Michael said. Not because anything was fine. But this wasn’t making things better. His life was slowly deflating; he could feel it in his lungs. If he fell off a horse, maybe a bone would shoot through his skin; that’d be a change.

They walked in silence to the arena where the horses were tied in their stables as he dwelled on the thought. The horses had their respective colors on their gear.

“I’ll keep this easy for you,” Mike said, petting the mane of his white horse. “The Queen will announce the start of the joust. You’ll be on one side of the center fence; I’ll be on the other. We’ll start approaching one another. The first pass you’ll scrap me. The second pass and third pass, I’ll hit you in the center armor. The Queen will announce me the winner and I’ll do victory laps while you ride back to the stable. It doesn’t take a genius to…oh… was it after 10th grade that you dropped out?”

“You know I didn’t” Michael rolled his eyes. They’d practically sat next to one another at graduation, much to his chagrin.

“Maybe I just stopped noticing you,” Mike shrugged.

“Um, okay, as hard as this may be for you to understand, I wasn’t going to high school to be noticed by you.”

Mike shifted the reins of his horse and shot Michael an unimpressed look. “I’m going to get a tea,” he grumbled, “I’ll see you in 30 minutes.”

Michael watched as his stupid black and green ponytail disappeared towards the village section of the faire grounds, stopping on the way to have his picture taken with two teenager girls. He realized that it was probably better to stay up this way to prevent having to actually be in character himself. He wasn’t used to doing anything here that people actually gave a damn about. He certainly didn’t need the oppression of being goggled at by strangers.

Having little else to do he pulled out a cigarette and headed towards the benches that would soon be filled up with the early morning crowd. He lay back against the bench and hung his arms off to the sides. If he stuck his arms out so that they were level with his body it was like he was being crucified. Was that going too far, he wondered, as he let them go limp again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pete’s voice shot down at him like hail. He opened his eyes and stared up at him. His eyes looked tired, and his skin was a sickly pale.

“Why?” Michael flicked some of the ash off his cigarette and sat up to take another drag.

“Why what?”

“Why are you asking,” he said, punctuating every word.

“Um okay…because you don’t know how to ride a horse and you’ll break your neck.” Pete replied. He’d stuck his thumbs through his belt loops, stuffing the ends of his puffy shirt through them. It must be hard pretending to care, Michael thought as he turned away from him.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, facing the dirt arena, “Makowski does it everyday.” It wasn’t a very distant part of him that wanted to be thrown off the horse and into unconsciousness. What a glorious spectacle it’d be; how many people got that chance to bleed in front of an audience of children and middle class nerds at 10AM on a Tuesday morning.

“Yeah, his grandparents had a farm Michael; he’s grown up around horses.”

“Did he tell you that over rounds of handmade hipster beer last night?”

“What? No.”

There probably hadn’t been time for talking Michael reasoned. Pete’s bangs were blowing across his face and Michael wished they would cover him completely like a curtain. Pete had been mad at him for weeks now and he’d idly taken the brunt of it, waiting for it to dissolve. And when it hadn’t, he’d tried to confront the situation but Pete hadn’t let him. So _fuck_ Pete, he could be mad too.

“Okay well thanks for the pep talk, but I’m fine. Go back to your dishes so I can get back to my cigarette.”

Pete snatched the cigarette from Michael’s fingers and took a drag.

“Okay and that was my last cigarette, so now you’re being an outright cunt,” Michael said, standing up. “I have to get ready.”

“No,” Pete stepped in front of him. He was a head shorter than Michael but his shoulders were clenched tight like he was bracing himself for a fight.

“Everything’s on your terms I guess, look at me, I’m shocked,” Michael said, going to take a step around him but Pete shoved him back with a surprising amount of force. Michael stumbled but grabbed Pete’s arm and held him in a tight grip for balance. Pete sucked in a breath as Michael held him but the taller teen simply snatched the cigarette back from his friend’s lips and releasing him.

Pete rubbed at his lips quickly with his knuckles like he had been punched. Michael almost felt like he should apologize.

“I’m serious Pete, go away,” he said, but the venom was gone from his voice now.

“I’m not going to let you hurt yourself." Pete's words were brittle as he stared hard at Michael.

“What is this? I’m not going—”

“What was last night about?” Pete asked abruptly.

“You deciding that Makowski was more worthwhile than me?”

“Michael, I dropped my phone. When I went to look for it he saw me. I couldn’t just tell him to fuck off.”

“Yeah, why should I believe that?”

But Pete was just staring at him and everything was green eyes shining bright and strawberry lips against white skin. The moment of tension seemed to fade and the first traces of the crowd was beginning to make their way to the benches.

“Because we’re friends,” Pete said finally, taking a breath, “because my heart was breaking my chest apart from the time I got in your car last night until the minute Makowski ruined it all.” Pete touching Michael’s hand, “Because I think last night was about doing this.” Pete’s hand behind Michael’s neck pulled him down until their lips met. Pete’s eyes were shut so tight, like he was front seat on the world’s most break-neck roller coaster. Michael kissed him back, hoping that he was doing it right, there was so much that he’d done wrong.

“It was,” he whispered against his cheek. He wrapped his arms around Pete, realizing with a smile that he’d been standing on his tip-toes. He kissed his temple and the side of his head, everywhere he could reach; he didn’t want to stop.

“That is some serious Ken and Barbie conformist shit,” Henrietta’s voice broke through the air, making them jump apart. Firkle was standing by her side, grinning ear to ear. “When Firk told me that you were going to joust Makowski I thought I was in for a show but this alone was worth the $26.95 admission.”

Pete flicked her off with smile and chanced a quick kiss along Michael’s jawline.

“Come on you two, it’s the last week of summer vacation, skip work and I’ll buy you Benny’s.”

“And me?” Michael thought he heard Firkle ask. But as they followed Henrietta out of the arena, all he could focus on was the feel of Pete’s hand in his and how the ground wasn’t even touching his feet. They were heads above everyone else and never coming down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this! Let me know what you thought in the comments! Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story please consider [buying this goth kid a coffee.](https://ko-fi.com/A402111U)


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